Dragon's Bane
by Llewellyn McEllis
Summary: Enter the AntiPotterverse, where Draco Malfoy sets the stage during his third year at Hogwarts. Father's little man, Mother's baby boy, the real question at hand is how will Draco come to define himself? DracoPansyMalfoy Family politics.
1. I am Draco Malfoy

Intro: I Am Draco Malfoy

I don't know why I do the things I do. There is certain satisfaction in watching as that wretched house-elf, who has been my caretaker since I was a baby, tumbles down the stairs, tripping over my foot, which I purposely put out for her to stumble on. I'm wicked; I know it, but every time I hear them arguing, I just want to hurt someone and I don't understand why. I know my parents love each other; they probably care more for each other than most other witch and wizard couples; you can see it in the way they dote on one another, the way mother finishes his sentences, and the way Father sometimes leaves a single rose on her plate those mornings he leaves for the Ministry before she even rises from bed.

I've never heard anyone stand up to him the way she does. I suppose that was the appeal when he married her; she's not afraid of him like so many others. Getting everything you want can become tiresome after a spell, and I guess after all he'd been given, Father needed a little opposition in his life. "He stays at Hogwarts, Lucius and that's my final word!"

"Your final . . ." they don't know I've been up here listening, and even from my vantage seat at the top of the first floor landing, I can still hear Father mumbling under his breath until he rages, "Your final word? How dare you defy me?" I roll my eyes in anticipation of another round, laying my head against the railing. "If it is my wish that boy goes to Durmstrang, the boy will go to Durmstrang and that's _my_ final word!"

"Defy you?" Something shatters, and I hear him gasp. "I was never under your dictatorship, Lucius Malfoy. I am not some servant who caters to your every whim. Just because you say jump doesn't mean I will leap into the air begging to know how high I should go in order to please you." Now she's gone and said it, I think, but then all I hear is him muttering again like a whelp; Merlin she has power! It's one of the things I love best about her. "Because you can't send him that far away from me, Lucius, he's all I have." She sounds like she's crying now; he must have said something to her that softened her anger.

"But you have me," he reminds her.

"I can't coddle you," she sniffles. "Just because you act like a spoiled little boy. . ."

"I don't."

"Sometimes you're more spoiled than he is."

"Nonsense," they've returned to normal, and even though I can't see them I know he's standing in front of her, eye to eye, and yet he's looking down on her as though he towers over her. He's always looked at her this way, although I don't understand why. "Won't you at least consider it, My Pet? He'll be better off there," he's sweet talking her again, using his honey-tongued drawl to win her over to his side of the argument. Maybe this time it'll work, but I doubt it. When it comes to me, she doesn't budge. "Their Masters are top notch."

"There's nothing wrong with the masters at Hogwarts," Nice save, Mother.

"They're second rate," he does have a point.

"Not Severus." Uh-oh. Father can't stand it when she talks about Snape.

He doesn't say anything for a long time and I listen for the death curse, "Snape will not teach him the Dark Arts." He hisses.

"You've taught him plenty yourself," she reminds him. "I won't give in, Lucius. You can't send him away from me." His sigh is a like a steam release, and then I hear his footsteps. I scramble toward back of the stairwell so it won't look like I've been listening.

"Draco," he's at the bottom of the stairs now. "Draco, come."  
I hate when he calls me like that, like I'm no better than one of the house elves he beckons in the same tone. I linger for a minute, and he calls me again, his steady voice rising to seek me out. I step forward, "Coming, Father."

"What took you so long?" He eyes me suspiciously, his cold eyes squinting as he narrows them over me.

"I was reading," I lie.

"Something useful, I hope." He has absolutely no faith in me.

"Draco, darling, come here, please," Mother calls from the parlor. "We've gotten your letter from Hogwarts this afternoon."

I descend the stairs slowly. My father still stands at the bottom, waiting for me to step onto the marble floor beside him. He escorts me out to meet her like she's some kind of Queen, his firm hand resting on my shoulder as he almost pushes me into the parlor. He's lost another battle with her, and I will pay the price, I fear. "Good afternoon, Mother," she pats the divan, and I sit beside her, looking up at my father with a smug arrogance that makes him simmer inside. There goes my new racing broom, but he won't dare degrade me in front of her; she'll give him holy hellfire for a month! "What's for tea?"

"Why anything you like, my darling boy," she puts her arm around me and squeezes me close to her. I lay my face against her and relax. As long as Mother's with me, I'm always safe. I don't believe that Father would ever really hurt me, but he's said enough to me in my lifetime to leave me feeling worthless. I feel like I fall short of all his expectations, as if I should have been born a mastermind, skilled without having to be taught. I should do magic without a wand, or some other near impossible miracle. I always let him down. Not mother though. I am her little prince, and everything I do brings a smile to her lips. That's why I love her best.

"I'll have biscuits," I reach for the letter in her hand and look over the words in it. Dear Master Malfoy, blah blah blah, third year students will require. . . I hand the letter back to her because whatever it is I need, Father will see to it. "And chocolates."

"Of course, Draco," she agrees. "Anything you like. Which biscuits do you prefer this afternoon?"

"The sugared ones." Father has taken his usual seat by the fireplace as though surely any moment someone will appear with urgent matter to discuss. They very well might, they usually do, and Mother will scold him like she usually does for entertaining drop in guests during tea. "Father, might I get a new broom?"

"I've just bought you a new broom, Draco," he sighs. "I bought the whole Quidditch team new brooms last fall."

"But there's a new broom, and I am the seeker. I was reading about it in. . ." I don't really care about the stupid broom. This is the only thing he seems to hear, talk about money, about satisfying my material wants. Important matters seem to go over his head, like yesterday when I asked him about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, if it was true that he was really out there somewhere looking for a way to return to power. Father looked at me and said, 'Not now, Draco," the way he always does, but I know he talks about it to Mother, I've overheard those conversations too. "Never mind," it's my turn to sigh.

Mother looks sideways at me, determined to make me happy no matter what it takes. "Buy him a new racing broom, Lucius," she isn't stern or commanding when she says this, but I know now I will get whatever I want from him when we go into Diagon Alley later to buy my school books because everything he does, he does for her. She hugs me tight again, "However will he fare on the Quidditch pitch with less than average equipment."

"I suppose your right," he smiles over at her.

Between them I am Father's showpiece and Mother's little gentleman, apart from them, I don't know who I am. All my life I've been a Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, to be precise, but who am I, really? I am the heir to the Malfoy fortune, and yes, I am my father's son, but does that really say anything about what's inside of me. I'm still my mother's little boy, because even though I'm almost thirteen, I still feel safe when I am with her, like nothing in the world could touch me. She would do anything to protect me, and even though this house is almost always cold in ways that aren't natural, Mother makes it warm.

By all means, I should consider myself lucky. I could have been born into that godforsaken Weasley family. Father always mocks that poor bastard Arthur Weasley, "haven't they ever heard of a protection charm?" Even worse, I could have been a mudblood like Granger. Ugh, just thinking about it gives me the willies, and I wonder how she can live with herself, knowing she'll never be a worthwhile or upstanding witch no matter how good her bloody grades are. As though it could get any worse than being a mudblood, I thank Merlin every day that I'm not Harry Potter. Stupid Harry Potter, the boy who lived, because he may have lived, but it's been no kind of life. Half-blood, famous Harry Potter with his stupid, famous scar. . .

"I want the best broom. I want a Firebolt!" I don't even notice but my jaw is clenched when I say this. "Gryffindor cannot win the Quidditch cup this year!"

"Well, we'll have to take a look then," and that settles it. Father is closed to discussion, and though I know I could talk to Mother about anything, I won't in front of him.

She's smiling over at me again, and then she kisses me on the cheek, and I feel warm inside. Stupid Potter, I smirk. At least I've got a mother.

A/N: This is the follow up story to Shadows of Truth, the what happened 14 years later story. You do not have to read SoTruth to understand this story, but it would probably make more sense to you if you have read the prior shadows stories on an overall level.


	2. Pratty In Pink

**Chapter One-Pratty in Pink**

Mother rarely comes with us into Diagon Alley, and according to Father she hasn't been seen in Knockturn Alley since the early 1980's. Crowds make her nervous, she says, but I think there are other reasons she avoids the place. Her cousin, Sirius Black being on the loose, escaped from Azkaban, seems to be one of her biggest concerns right now, and I don't understand why. Father walks in front of me, oblivious to the fact that I have said his name twice now in attempt to get his attention. He holds his head high, and everyone we pass greets him with such respect I almost envy him while at the same time the pride of being his son swells in my own chest. "Father," I say again. "Might I ask you a question?"

"Good afternoon, Master Malfoy," it's Cornelius Fudge, the Minster of Magic. He takes off his hat, which he holds over his chest respectfully. "Funny I should run into you here, when I've been in such desperate need to get in touch with you. Why if I didn't know any better, Lucius, I'd think you were avoiding me."

"Don't be ridiculous, Fudge," I look at my father, he sneers and holds his gloved hand over for Fudge to take. Fudge takes the hand gladly and shakes a little too eagerly for Father's taste. "You've met my son, Draco," he reaches behind him and pulls me forward. Had I not been expecting him to do it, I would have tripped, making him look like a complete fool. Lucky for me, you get used to being a showpiece after awhile, and even when you least expect it, your body glides into display, the innocent smile shining on your face no matter how fake it is on the inside.

Fudge reaches forward and tousles my hair, mussing it, "Young Master Malfoy, why I think the last time I saw you, you were no higher than your father's knee. Now look at you standing here today, a right proper gentleman if I do say so myself." I must look a complete fool now, my hair standing up in disordered spikes. Father will surely scold me the minute Fudge walks away for not keeping my hair neat, like I had a choice. "You and Mrs. Malfoy must be so proud."

"Thank you, sir," I continue to smile, but the mask of it hurts my face.

"Might I have a moment, Lucius," Fudge asks hopefully, and the minute Father agrees, I start to pull off, distracted by the shop window beside us.

At first I stand there trying to rearrange the slicked perfection of my hair in the window's reflection, realizing that without a wand, or at the very least a comb it's useless to even try fixing it, and then my attention is drawn to what's on display in the window. The Firebolt. I reach out to touch the window, tracing my fingertip over the glossy beauty and I am so hypnotized by it, I hardly notice when my face is pressed against the glass. I don't need to read the sales pitch to know I want it. Last year I threw my Nimbus 2001 in Potter's face, my way of letting in him know that he will never be better than me at anything. I imagine how disgusted he'll look with me chasing him around the Quidditch Pitch, passing him by on my shiny new Firebolt to catch the Golden Snitch and win the Game for Slytherin. I hear the crowd chanting my name, "Malfoy! Malfoy!" and Snape's so pleased he actually smiles and excuses me from Potions work for the rest of my years at school.

"Come along, Draco," Father's cold voice cuts into my fantasy and I back away from the window. "I haven't got all day and now Fudge wants me to at the Ministry for a couple of hours before dinner."

"What about my broom," but he hasn't heard me. He's already halfway up the block in the opposite direction of Quality Quidditch Supplies and I know he won't hear a word of my protest. He's on a mission now and his mind is lost to all things which concern me. He doesn't even notice how far I am behind him until he's come face to face with some other acquaintance requesting a recommendation from him for a job at St. Mungo's. I stand behind him again, unnoticed, and think about that broom. What misery it would bring to Potter if I had it. If he won't buy it for me, I intend to make his life hell, and the only way to do that is in front of my mother. My lip twitches eagerly, and I suddenly can't wait to get home.  
Only my plan doesn't go off as I want it to. Father is home and gone again before I even have a chance to complain to Mother about his neglecting to buy me the Firebolt I so desperately need to keep up appearances. "Tell your mother I will return at Seven," he says, brushing lint from his coat.

"Of course, Father," I reply, adding under my breath, "that won't be the only thing I tell her."

"Good boy," for a minute he smiles at me and I feel guilty. Father's smile is such rare praise that I actually reconsider telling Mother about his broken promise. I wonder if he has any clue how much he's disappointed me today. He looks into the mirror and straightens his collar, the serpent headed cane he carries his wand in still clutched in his hand; he has no clue. "Goodbye then," he disapparates, the air stiffening before cracking loudly to announce his departure.

"Goodbye," I mumble.

As if my day cannot possibly get any worse, I spend the next forty minutes searching the manor for my mother, who I find at last in the garden entertaining Mrs. Parkinson. Beside them is Pansy, the Parkinson's only daughter, and the minute she notices me, her face lights up. Pansy and I have known each other since we were four; that was the year Mother and Mathilda Parkinson discovered that they shared an interest in the brewing of unusual potions. By the time Pansy and I were five, Mother and Mathilda had started some haughty organization for witches that they called Potions of Unusual Nature. Mother fondly referred to it as P.U.N.

It took me years to discover that P.U.N. was really an organization for the upper-class Witches of the Wizarding world to get together and gossip about not only their inferiors, but each other. I heard Mathilda Parkinson asking, ". . . the size of her hair. It was preposterous. Surely Gregory would never let her out of the house looking like that, but sure enough, they were both there at the A.C.W. awards banquet and her hair was bigger than ever."

Mother's laughter brightens the garden, which despite the grey sky above, is one of the cheeriest places on the property. The garden is her refuge, that place she escapes to when she wants to be alone with a book or her thoughts. Father found some way to charm the Garden years ago so that it's always spring, and for her, the flowers are always in bloom. Even the Garden's cheeriness can't lift my spirits today, and I think I'll escape back into the house, find somewhere to hide from Pansy, but the little twit gives me away.

"Hi, Draco," she chimes.

I draw in a breath through my nose, "Hi, Pansy."  
Remembering my manners, I manufacture a pleasant smile for Mrs. Parkinson, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Parkinson."

"Oh, Draco," Mother looks over at me, holding her arm out to embrace me. I begrudgingly duck under her arm and let her tug me close. "I didn't even know you were back. How was your trip? Where's your father?" First me, and then him; I love how she does this, mostly because he hates it. Lucky for me, he isn't here.

"He's gone to the Ministry of Magic," I reply. "He said to tell you he'll be home by seven."

"The Ministry of Magic," she shook her head. "I wonder what they want from him now. You know he gives and gives to them, and Cornelius Fudge stands there gape mouthed waiting for the next handout."

"The man's an absolute puppet," Mathilda agrees. I notice she is pushing at Pansy, probably trying to shove her off on me.

Mother's thin smile is cold, "According to Lucius, that's Fudge's only redeeming quality." I don't get it, but they laugh, and Pansy is looking at me again, as though she expects me to ask her to follow me around like a puppy dog until her mother leaves. I won't need to ask her. Any moment one of our mothers will suggest. . . "Draco," it's my mother, "Why don't you take Pansy down and show her the new mare. It's been ages since she was here last and the two of you had such fun riding last time." Fun, ha! It was the longest day of my life. Pansy Parkinson knows nothing about horses, and as far as I'm concerned, she shouldn't even be allowed around them for the safety of the animals.

I smile handsomely, "Of course, Mother." Pansy gets up from her seat. She's wearing a frilly, pink dress covered in lace and tiny pearls, and I can feel the twitching of a wicked grin at the corner of my mouth. She'll never be able to ride in that get up, thank Merlin!

"Don't keep her long, Draco," Mrs. Parkinson pleads. "I want to be going soon. Winston has been so testy lately; I wouldn't dare be late for dinner." This last part is meant for my mother, and Pansy and I are already walking away from the table.

"Have you gotten your school letter yet," we're halfway to the stables before Pansy speaks.

"Got it today."

"Care of Magical Creatures," she wrinkles her nose, which is sort of piggish, sloping snobbishly upwards at the end. She could hold a spoon in place with it, I think, that nasty smile finding me again. "What kind of rubbish class is that, Care of Magical Creatures. I bet it'll be an absolute joke."

"Aren't all of our classes?" I see our shadows walking ahead of us and I notice that my hair is catching in the breeze. It reminds me that that stupid git from the Ministry mussed up my hair and even though I could care less what Pansy thinks about how I look, I start to fuss with it again, trying to smooth the flyaway pieces down.

She prattles on about school the entire walk and I hardly hear a word she's saying until she mentions, "I sort of like Potions."

"Potions is all right. Snape favors us."

"You especially," she points out.

"He does, doesn't he," I feel triumphant again, remembering my daydream about the Firebolt where Snape permanently excuses me from Potions until the end of my days because I won the Quidditch Cup for Slytherin. The triumph wavers, until it sinks into the pit of my stomach with the likelihood of that daydream coming true. Suddenly, I'm mad at Father again, and I take it out on Pansy, "Who dressed you this morning, anyway, Parkinson? Your mother?" That ought to shut her up. She won't dare talk back to me. She idolizes me, and the triumph returns when she lowers her head, her round cheeks flushing through six shades of embarrassment, the last one almost matching the lace on her pink dress. "You look like an idiot."

What's really sad is that she actually agrees with me, "I know." I look over at her. Great, she's going to cry, but she doesn't, and even though I know it would probably make he happy if she cried, I'm relieved that I won't have to explain myself to Mother when she asks me why I've made poor, pink Pansy Parkinson blubber. "I'd give anything to be back at Hogwarts. Everywhere we've gone all holiday long, Mummy dresses me up like some wretched little princess. I absolute hate it."

"Well you should," I agree, stepping up on the wooden fence that corrals the horses during the day. Pansy doesn't follow my example, but she leans against the wooden pillar in front of her, looking out over the summer grass, parts of it now faded and dry with coming autumn. "I'd never let my mother dress me, she wouldn't dare."

Pansy ignores me, "Which one is the new mare?"

I follow her green-eyed gaze into the meadow, "That one," I point to the Chestnut mare with a fiery mane cozying up to my father's black stallion. "Mother called her Autumn's Vengeance."

"Autumn's Vengeance?"

"Because her mane is like fire." Mother's quite a romantic. She's always naming things around the manor, especially the plants, but she has a flare for naming animals and I think that's why father keeps indulging her with new pets.

I don't know what Pansy was thinking, maybe because I said that about the horse's mane, but suddenly she asks, "Did you hear about the Weasels?"

"Who hasn't?" I smirk. "Father laughed about it for two weeks." Pansy laughs now too. "They looked so stupid with their picture in the Daily Prophet, like they'd never had their picture in the paper before."

"Probably haven't," she agrees. "I'm surprised Harry Potter didn't find a way to worm himself in on their photo. He's always landing himself in the paper."

Don't I know it? "Maybe he's dead." One can hope.

"Please," she rolls her eyes. "Then we'd never hear the end of it. It'd be front page news for the next ten years."

Her smile is self-satisfied; she's thinking her comment will make me laugh, and were I feeling more generous today, I might have. She's right though about Potter and I hate her for that, "Don't you have to go home or something, Pinky?"  
I feel my spirits rise as that smug grin slides from her face.

"Yeah," she turns back toward the manor, but I'm not going to follow her. "I guess I'll see you on the train, then." She says. "Maybe we can share a compartment and sit together."

"I doubt it," I mumble.

"Well, goodbye, Draco."

I don't even look back at her, and even though I refuse to turn around for more than ten minutes, I can feel her piggy little eyes staring at my back every time she turns around on the walk back to the garden. Mother won't think anything about my not coming back right away, even if it is my duty as a gentleman to escort Pansy back across the property. I go into the stable to find my gelding, a silver-white Belgium who towers hands above all the other horses. I'm not supposed to ride him alone, but what Father doesn't know won't hurt him. I saddle up, and take off into the wooded riding trails behind the manor, hoping to escape my own wickedness for awhile.

Unfortunately, there is no escape; it is with me everywhere I go. As much as I don't want to, I'm thinking about Potter again. I've never hated anyone like I hate Harry Potter, and the odd thing about it is I don't even know why I bother to care. He's a half-blood, muggle-loving, loser whose only claim to fame is a stupid scar on his ugly forehead shaped like a lightening bolt. How does that make him famous? By all rights, I deserve more fame than him. I'm Lucius Malfoy's only son, heir to the Malfoy fortune. I pull the horse back to leap over a dangerous tangle of tree roots just off the right of the path. Fluidly we move together, my body and the horse's, and when we land, I can feel the earth tremble under our power.

I am free out here with the wind on my face, in the country. I shouldn't even be thinking about Harry Potter in the first place. There's more than a week until holiday's over, and I know it isn't Pratty Pansy's fault, but taking it out on her sort of made me feel better for a minute. Outside of Hogwarts, I am Lucius Malfoy's son. I am popular, well liked, and I'm convinced that I could get away with murder, unless I killed Harry Potter. At Hogwarts, I'm the most popular boy in Slytherin, but all the rest of the school cares only about Potter, Potter, Potter. I want to go to Durmstrang; I actually want what my father wants for me.

The wicked streak is back, and I think about charging the horse straight over a cliff, but then I see her standing on the pathway, her hands on her hips and her gold hair and white robes whispering in the breeze. "Your father will have your hide if he finds out you've been riding out here alone." I saunter toward her, lazy now.

How does she always know where to find me? "Are you going to tell him, then?"

"Of course not," we stop just in front of her, and I feel like we tower miles over her. "I'll walk back with you."

She takes the reigns and turns him back toward home, walking quietly beside me. I think of all the people in my life, the only one I've never wanted to hurt is Mother. It's why even though I would much rather transfer to Durmstrang like Father wants, I won't ask her for it, because I know that it would kill her to be so far away from me. Why do her feelings matter to me more than anyone else's, even my own? I look down at her, the side of her face, which is shadowed by her beautiful hair; she gave me life, that's why, and I know she would do anything for me.

We are quiet as we walk, and then I ask, "Mother," I look forward again, the stables coming slowly into view. "You won't let Father marry me off to that pig, will you?" She's taken aback by my question, which even I think is rather random.

"You mean Pansy?" I nod. "Of course not, Draco," she promises, smiling up at me. "I don't think your father would be all too keen on a permanent tie with the Parkinson's anyway. He thinks Winston Parkinson is a pretentious windbag." As though Father has any room to call anyone else pretentious. I think she's a mind reader because she smiles, "A little like the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it." Sometimes when she smiles and laughs, I think I see someone else in her, her face changes and I almost don't recognize her, but then the moment passes and she's herself again. "I forgot to ask when you came home," she changes the subject, "where's your new broom?"

Should I get him into trouble? A part of me wants nothing more than to spend another night listening to her tear him to pieces, but I think about how hard he worked on her to try and send me to Durmstrang. "I forgot about it when we were in Diagon Alley," I lie.

"You forgot?" Narrow eyes like violets turn to look at me. "You forgot or your father forgot?"

"I forgot." Why have I saved him?

"Well, we'll have to send him back out then, won't we."

Only during dinner, the broom isn't mentioned again. I have a feeling she will wait until they are alone to find out what really happened, and he will back my story, insisting he never heard me ask after it as he walked off without me. Oh well, it's out of my hands. As my mother's house elf, Zippy walks by me at the table, I deny the urge I feel to trip her just to watch her fall down. Of course this could lead to Father berating her for being a clumsy old fool, and another evening at Malfoy Manor will end with entertainment. But I refrain.

What is wrong with me? Am I getting soft? No. I think I'm actually just content knowing I made Pansy Parkinson cry.


	3. As My Father's Son

**Chapter Two- As My Father's Son**

"It's quite ridiculous, really," Father says, as I come into the dining room the next morning for breakfast. "Why, they're only drawing more attention to themselves. It's preposterous. Why don't they just wear checkers and polka dots?"

"Good morning, Draco," Mother smiles over at me, completely oblivious to whatever morning news has inspired Father's pointless rant.

"Morning, Mother," I smile. Father offers a glaring nod, "Good morning, Father."

"Mm," is all he gives me. "I think I'll have a word with Fudge about it myself," he goes on, as though nothing could interrupt his conversation. "After all, it's making the entire wizarding world look ridiculous. Something's got to be done."

"Oh, Lucius, it's Arthur Weasley, for pity's sake. We all know he's a not altogether right upstairs, and if he gets the Potter boy killed, whose fault will it be?" Father hates Arthur Weasley as much as I hate Harry Potter, if not more. Filthy-blood traitor, obsessed with muggles, just saying Weasley's name is enough sometimes to make his left eye twitch. This morning, it's obviously twitching because he keeps tugging with his middle finger at the corner of his eye. What's really got my attention though is Mother's mention about Potter's potential death. Today may not turn out to be so bad after all. My first thoughts about Scarhead have been a gory play by play of his destruction in some bizarre Quidditch accident.

I smile.

"Mm," he agrees and reaches for his coffee only to find it empty. His eyes narrow bitterly. If Dobby were still here Father's coffee would never be empty unless he wanted it emptied. "Zippy!" His bellow echoes through the manor and mother rolls her eyes, ducking behind the Community section of the Weekend Prophet to mask her irritation. The picture of Azkaban escapee, Sirius Black rages at me from the front page, which father is folding neatly in an effort to ready himself for the big confrontation. "Zippy!" I take my seat at the table and prepare for the morning show, unfolding my napkin in my lap.

He'll probably beat her; it's been awhile since he really unleashed his full anger on one of the house elves, and the whole thing with Arthur Weasley being in the paper again really has him riled up. Mother usually steps in if it gets too out of hand, but this morning she's not in the mood. Hiding behind her section of the paper, I catch nothing more than a glimpse of her hair. She's sullen today; I don't need to see her face to know it, and I think maybe it has to do with my leaving for school tomorrow. This should make her happy, "Could we ride today, Mother?" she moves the paper aside to peer over at me, a pleasant smile lifting away the gloom. "Just the two of us?"

"Three," she looks in my father's direction. "Just the three of us."

"Of course." Good lord. Father will ruin everything. Just mother and I could spend a whole afternoon together outdoors and barely find need to speak, but with Father along I'll barely get a word or thought in edgewise with her. He isn't happy unless he has all of her attention and I already see myself riding behind them while his slow, witty seduction inspires her laughter. Really, I should be glad that he loves her the way he does. Most kids come from broken homes these days, but my parents are still crazy about each other after eighteen years of marriage. I don't know why, but I hate being around her though when he's there. Is it because he's always got to have her attention? Is it because like she said yesterday he's more spoiled sometimes than I am?

I'm not spoiled; at least I don't think I am. I like to think I'm well loved. I know what I want, and then I go after it, but spoiled? I don't agree. He's shouting at Zippy now, who is cowering with her arm up as though she's expecting him to strike her. It wouldn't be the first time. Finally he excuses her, tells her that the next time his coffee mug is empty without him willing it so, she will find herself with a sack full of dirty shorts on the sidewalks in Piccadilly Circus begging for soup to survive.

"Master is gracious," she steps backwards and I stick out my foot. Thump, she tumbles back and a scowl darkens Father's brow. "Master is too good for Zippy," she scampers to her feet. "Young Master, thank you for trying to keep clumsy, old Zippy from falling over. Zippy is so stupid and clumsy. Where would she be without her family?" Stupid house elf. She knows bloody well I tripped her. "Zippy will get Master's coffee now. Thank you, Master."

Mother actually cares about Zippy, and I sort of feel bad for tripping her because Mother ignored my doing it even though I saw a crease in her brow. She's always been sympathetic to the lesser creatures; that's what Father says anyway, "She's sympathetic toward the pathetic; why she'd probably throw herself in front of a moving train to save a dodgy werewolf . . ." she didn't talk to him for three days after he said that. I think that is just another one of the reasons that I adore her. She has her own agenda and could care less about anyone else's if it interferes with hers, even her own husband.

Father's complaining about Dobby again, who should rightfully be here in our service, but no small thanks to Harry Potter, Dobby's gone. Father also lost his lofty position among the School Board of Governors, no thanks to Potter. Funny how you can spend eleven years without a person in your life and never know what you're missing, but two hours in their presence can bring your whole world crashing down around you. That's what life with Potter is like. Everyone thinks he's some great hero, but he's a walking time bomb, and no one is safe from his destruction. Of course we all grew up to the tune of endless praise about the boy who lived, but who cares, really? He was a bloody baby. It wasn't like he actually stood up to the dark lord or something brilliant like that. He laid there in his little crib while his mommy and daddy died to save his worthless, half-blood arse and they celebrate him like a holiday. Then after eleven years without a single word confirming his whereabouts or even the fact that he was still alive, old Scarhead Potter crawls out of the sludge and he's an overnight sensation.

My first train ride to Hogwarts should have been my glory day. It should have been the day I, Draco Malfoy, broke all the molds and standards set by the great men before me. By all rights, _I_ should have been the youngest Quidditch seeker in the last hundred years, not Potter. I'm just as good as he is, even better, I say. My father taught me to ride a broom before I could barely walk, but that cow McGonagall recommends Potter, and I have to wait a whole year before I can try out as Slytherin's seeker. Of course Father guaranteed my acceptance, but I could have gotten in on talent, just like Potter. Potter . . . I clench my fists, and do not notice that the food on my plate is getting cold. I'm not really hungry now that I've started another day thinking about that stupid boy that lived.

Mother's talking to me and I somehow manage to answer her without even knowing what she's saying, but the real kick is when father asks me something and I agree without even knowing what I've agreed to. ". . . Draco?"

"Of course, Father." He's smiling again. I should consider myself lucky, but I really have no idea what I've just made him so happy with. For all I know I've agreed to help him hang the house elf later, and though the prospect is actually tempting, I get the feeling Mother would never forgive me if we did it.

"It's settled then," he says. What? What is settled? Oh no! I haven't just agreed to something horrible, have I? Is he going to marry me off to Pinky Parkinson? Have I signed away my future with a daydream reply? So help me, if I have, Potter will pay for this too.

Mother folds her section of the paper and hands it over to him, "Don't tease him, Lucius."

"What? I was being serious," he insists. He winks at me, a sure sign that he's trying to change her mood for the better and that the person he's really teasing is her. Thankfully whatever I've agreed to wasn't even real. I'd never forgive myself if I'd actually agreed to help father do something boring, or even worse, something that would make mother unhappy. "We'll line them up in the back yard and. . ."

"Oh, Lucius, you're an absolute scream, really," only she's not laughing, even as her eyes assure him she's at least vaguely amused. She's like a black widow, deadly while at the same time alluring and beautiful. "Shall I have the papers come then? They could do a write up; you'll make the front page. Perhaps they'll put you in there next to Arthur Weasley. . ." she's gone too far; he's got that dangerous look about him now.

"Now, now," he sneers. "There's not need to be feisty, 'Cissa."

Another day at Malfoy Manor has officially begun. I swear they all start this way. One insult is all it takes for him to grasp at revenge and call her that one nickname she's hated since before I was born. I wonder how they manage without an audience. Do they fight like this when I'm not here, or is it just for my amusement? I tuck into my plate, shoveling in mouthfuls of syrup soaked hotcakes and washing them down with sweet tea and extra cream. Soon they leave the table and take their argument with them. Father follows her up the stairs and she slams the door in his face crying, "It doesn't matter, Lucius. What matters is that you know I hate it when you call me that!" It's been fifteen minutes and she's still hung up on the name. Meanwhile, Father has found at least four other things to complain about, and I can hear his faded shouts as he works his way into the room and slams the door behind him.

So much for riding. . . I finish my tea.

Even though it's Saturday, businessmen begin to arrive in search of Father's golden guidance. Men like my father are born rich, yes, but the real gift comes in maintaining a family fortune that has passed down through several generations. Obviously he's a financial genius; it's one of the few things I respect about him. By afternoon tea, he's done with kissing Mother's arse, even is she hasn't forgiven him, and he slips away into his study with three well-dressed blokes I've never even seen before.

I've been sitting in the parlor reading comics since breakfast, waiting for them to stop arguing. God only knows where mother's gone after he and his callers disappear into his study. No more than twenty minutes after they're bickering ends the doorbell sounds and I rise to answer it. I'm not the least bit surprised to see my Potions Master, the head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts, standing on the other side. Snape and Father do business often and he's always bringing mother unusual potions components for her P.U.N. gatherings. I greet him with a pleasant enough smile, and step aside, inviting him in. "Father's in a meeting," I explain. "Would you like to come into the parlor and have tea while you wait?"

Sometimes Snape looks at me in ways that make me uncomfortable. It's not like he's giving me the evil eye, or anything less than savory, but he looks at me as if he knows me from somewhere else, admiring some memory in me that I don't understand. His soulless eyes scan my face, and just as I'm about to ask him what potions he'll be teaching us this year, Mother makes her grand entrance, "Who was it at the door now, Draco. . . oh," she stops in her tracks. "Good afternoon Severus."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Malfoy," he smiles, a rare vision so few are ever given the pleasure of witnessing, but I also notice he's nervous. His naturally concise demeanor falters in her presence, it almost always does and he stumbles over himself, obviously flustered as he actually stutters, "M-my apologies for not attending to speak at your last P-pU.N. seminar, my summer schedule has been far busier than usual this year, I'm afraid."

"No apology necessary, Severus. P.U.N. will be glad to have such and established Potions Brewer speak for us whenever he sees fit. Won't you come in and have tea with us?"

"I probably shouldn't," he shakes his head. "I've only stopped by to drop this off for Lucius," he holds out a sealed roll of parchment. "Could you see that he gets it at once?"

"But of course," they hold the parchment between them longer than necessary, and then he finally yields it to her. It's weird how they interact and for a minute, I can see why Father gets so jealous whenever she talks about Snape. I'm almost jealous myself on Father's behalf as I realize how obviously she's flirting with him. "Are you sure you won't have tea," she offers again. She tosses her hair and that strange face appears again, the one that sometimes makes me wonder who my mother really is underneath it all.

"I couldn't possibly," he insists. "I've much to take care of before a new batch of less than potential students arrives for fall term tomorrow evening. Thank you, but perhaps another time."

"Indeed, you know you're always welcome to tea," she sees him to the door and I follow, lingering in the entranceway of the parlor like a shadow. He mutters something to her before stepping through the door, and I don't hear him, but whatever it was it makes her laugh. "Of course, Severus. I know you will." She's leaning on the doorframe, and now I can't hear anything they say because she's muttering too. It's always like this when he visits and Father's not in the room to steal the conversation away from her; whispering backed by her lovely and innocent laughter. I think Snape fancies her; in fact, I'm sure he does, and just thinking about it makes me burn inside with rage. It's no small wonder Father gets so jealous because for a minute, I almost believe Mother sort of fancies Snape back as she tosses the billowy, gold cloud of hair over her shoulder. All the men fancy her; she's beautiful so why shouldn't they, but with Snape it's completely different.

Ew! What a disgusting thought, my mother and the potions master. The house elf walks by and instead of tripping her, I grab hold of the sack she wears as clothing and throw her to the ground. It only barely softens my anger so I kick her, and walk back into the parlor, satisfied with the sound of her whimpering. I sit on the edge of the sofa and take my tea. I have every intention of being angry with Mother when she comes back into the parlor, but then she does and I can't hold onto it because she smiles at me and that makes everything okay. "Shall we ride then this afternoon?" she looks in the direction of Father's office, then whispers back to me, "It'll be just the two of us, then?"

This makes me happy. "All right." How could I ever distrust her, think that she is anything less than perfect? She is Mother, after all, and when I look over at Zippy, who has picked herself up off the floor and wiped away her pathetic tears, I feel guilty for a fleeting second and then it passes.

Mother rides in front of me like a dream come to life. Everything she does is full of grace and beauty, and I imagine some vagrant passerby straying into our shadowy copse believing he has passed into the next world as my mother the goddess rides out to meet him. She wears white often, which is a strange contrast to my father always wearing black. They are night and day, but I have a hard time figuring out which is which. She is certainly no innocent, which is why I think she looks so fair in white. Both she and father were Death Eaters, loyal to the Dark Lord in his day. I've seen the faded scar of the Dark Lord's mark on her back. She said it was because she was a spy, but whenever I ask her for details, like father, she changes the subject.

They were of the few to escape persecution during the Dark Days by claiming that they worked against their will under the Imperius Curse, but I've seen the things Father keeps under the floorboards- strange devices of torture and lethal poisons, old relics he claims once belonged to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. I can see Father taking great pleasure in the suffering of others, especially muggles, but for some reason it's a little harder for me to see my Mother in this role. "Mother?"

She looks over her shoulder at me, slowing Autum's Vengeance so I can ride beside her and talk. "Did you see the Fennylops, Draco?" She gestures to our right, but I don't see the birds. "They'll be leaving soon, flying off to warmer weather, I suppose." It's a vague reference to my own departure, I know because she's sullen again.

"It is almost that time," I agree. "Mother, did you know Snape before you knew father?"

"Professor Snape," she minds my manners so I don't have to. "Why do you ask?"

Nothing like avoiding the question, "Because you and he seem awful friendly sometimes. I wondered if you knew him before you knew father."

She's contemplative now, her steady, hazel eyes, which remind me of violets today, peering into the woods before her. She avoids my face, "Severus and I worked together once."

"With potions and the like?"

"Not exactly," she's far away now, the way she gets sometimes when I ask her about her past. It's like she has to think carefully before she tells me about herself. I want to ask her with what then, how she worked with Snape and why she's never told me, but she's so fragile to me. I worry pressing her will break her and she'll close herself off from me forever. "We were both spies, if you must know," she says nearly five minutes later. "Spies for Lord Voldemort." She says his name without the hinge of fear that bends so many others to his faded will.

It's actually the first time she's been cut and dry with me. I know if Father were with us she would not have said as much as she has, and I also know I can never repeat to him what she's told me. "Is that why his mark is on your back?"

"Yes."

"So no one would know you were a spy?"

"Something like that," she pulls the horse to a halt and turns her slowly around so we are face to face. "I think we should head back now." It doesn't seem like we've been out long, but the position of the sun suggests that it's been hours and that dinner is drawing near. I don't want to end the day with her. She's given me one little morsel and I'm greedy for more. I follow her, thinking if I can keep up with her pace, I can get her to divulge more of her secrets to me. It's always fascinated me how secretive she is, like a mystery unto herself, a mystery that maybe even Father has yet to unravel. "Please don't tell your father what I've told you," she looks sideways at me as we approach the stable. "He doesn't like me to talk about the past, and I feel he would be especially angry if he knew we were talking about Severus."

"Of course I won't," I promise.

"I trust you," she reaches across the space between our horses and pats the Belgium on the neck. It is a gesture meant for me, but she's far away again, riding like a dream beside me.

I'm lost in my own thoughts. My mother a spy for the Dark Lord, how? Surely being married to my father, regardless of his pretense of good virtue, would have made anyone in the opposition wary to speak to her about the inner workings of their revolt. I don't understand it, but she's talking again, lamenting about my leaving for school in the morning. She wishes I didn't ever have to go to school, that I could stay home and learn everything I need to know from her, but Father would never allow it. "I suppose you'll be happy to get back to your friends anyway, and your Quidditch."

"You'll come to all of my games, right?"

"Of course I will," she promises. "Father and I both."

I do miss Quidditch, but not my friends. Crabbe and Goyle haven't exactly been absent from my life this summer holiday. Just last week they were both here riding with me. Of course I have other friends, people like Pansy, who follow me around and do what I tell them, but are they even really my friends. The one person I do not miss is Potter. If I could spend the rest of my life without ever laying eyes on his ugly face again "Mother, Father says it isn't prudent for me to voice my feelings about Harry Potter."

She sighs, corralling the horse. "Your father's right," she's brushing Autumn's mane, the fiery red flare glistening in the fading sun, and for a moment it catches like a flame in the reflection of her eyes. "There's no sense in your dislike for Harry Potter, Draco. You have so much more than he does, and I don't just mean money, either. You're smarter than he is, more handsome than he is, and you're cunning. You're special. Harry Potter is just a boy."

"A stupid boy," I add.

"Stupid boy or no, it isn't wise to flaunt your dislike for him. It could get you into trouble with your masters at school, and as your father says, we've already seen that the school headmaster favors Harry Potter."

But why? I want to know why they all favor him so much. What is so special about Potter that makes everyone love him. He doesn't even do anything and they all fall down at his feet. So what if he saved some stupid stone from He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Anyone could have done it had they known it was in danger, but Potter does it and they practically name a holiday after him. And as far as the Chamber of Secrets is concerned, I was happy when people actually believed Scarhead was the Heir of Slytherin. It was justice, but then he defeats Voldemort again and they all but build statues in his likeness in the courtyard.

"Wouldn't it be in my best interest as my Father's son to oppose Harry Potter, Mother?" This makes the most sense. My father and mother were Death Eaters, supporters of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, shouldn't I follow in their footsteps?

She turns her eyes quickly on me and for a moment I almost wince, worried that she is going to lash out and strike me. "Draco, never say that out loud again," she hisses. "Imagine what it would do to your father's reputation if you were heard claiming that he opposes Harry Potter!" I look around the stable, are we being watched? "It is in your best interest to stay away from that boy." Her tone is biting, it stings and I realize that my eyes are actually a little damp. She's never yelled at me before, and even though her tone barely scaled above a whisper, she might as well have used a Sonorus Charm because she reached me loud and clear. Then her face softens, "Do you understand?"

"Yes," my voice is a weak rasp, and when she reaches out to touch the side of my face, I can feel she's trembling.

"Promise me," she looks into my face, and her eyes, which were violets only moments ago, have caught fire with the spark and burn like amber into my own. "Promise me, Draco, please."

"Of course, Mother," I've never seen her like this. I've heard it; she goes a little crazy sometimes, but usually it's only when she's alone with father. She sees things, I guess, but that's just another one of her little mysteries I know nothing of. "I promise."

"Good," she cups my face in her hand, a slow smile smoothing out the last edges of fear and anger in her expression, "Thank you," and then she hugs me.


End file.
